Dr Watson is on the Case
by WayWardWonderer
Summary: Detective Sherlock Holmes has fallen victim to a poisoned blade. Now Dr. John Watson must find a way to treat the detectives injury and identify the poison to cure Holmes, before it's too late.


**Dr. Watson is on the Case: **

Just as so many cases before, Holmes stood triumphantly with the guilty party in tow, a smirk of arrogance across his face. However at the end of this case his left hand had been cleverly concealing a small wound on his right forearm. A struggle with the primary suspects was not uncommon but with a man like Holmes, it but practically guaranteed.

Holmes had the murderer, the case was closed, all the victims had been accounted for and thus would receive justice. Now all that was left to do was inform Detective Lestrade of his deductions.

Detective Sherlock Holmes and his loyal colleague, Dr. John Watson, had chased after a serial murderer, known only as "The Back-Alley Butcher" for several blocks in the pouring rain autumn, before the Butcher had cornered himself in the basement of an abandoned warehouse. The maniac was outnumbered but wasn't going to simply give up without a fight.

Despite both Holmes and Watson offering the villain a chance to surrender peacefully. Their generous offers were both turned down. The confrontation was now inevitable.

"You will never see ME behind bars, Detective!" The Butcher taunted Holmes from the darkened corner of his makeshift sanctuary. "If you want me, come and GET me…" His voice echoed eerily from the shadows, his insanity was obvious to all who saw him but now it was clear in his demented words.

An obvious ploy to lure Holmes into the darkness where the Butcher was surely brandishing one of his many knives, without hesitation Holmes stepped away from the dimly lit doorway and toward the raspy voice of the Butcher, still shrouded in darkness. _"A fitting hideaway for such a cruel man…" _Was the only thought Holmes had in his mind as he stepped closer to the inevitable danger. Watson tried to grab Holmes shoulder and pull him back away, however, Holmes knew he could use the darkness to his advantage and shrugged off the doctor's grip.

Surely once Holmes was in range of the weapon, the Butcher would attack him with a knife and try to run past the wounded detective. Anticipating such an obvious attack, Holmes stepped closer using the Butcher's angered, heavy breathing as a form of radar to detect the exact location of his presence. Carefully Holmes closed in on his target, then turned his back to the monster in hiding!

"Holmes!" Watson saw from the doorway the glint off the blade of the knife the Butcher was wielding. He had raised high into the air above his head, allowing the street lanterns outside the shine on the tarnished steel, its blade tipped stained with an odd, dark colored residue. Blood perhaps?

Sensing the Butcher moving in to strike, Holmes quickly stepped to his left just as the knife came down. Missed. The Butcher clumsily stumbled forward, Holmes seized the opportunity to grab the hand that held the knife. He used his strength to turn the blade back toward the Butcher, while Watson stepped forward trying to focus on the struggle being displayed before him with his hand on the pistol still in its holster at his side.

Holmes stared back into the hollow eyes of the Butcher, his face showing no fear or anger just a calm demeanor. For only a brief second did their gaze part as Holmes glanced down at the knife to accurately judge the distance between his body and discolored tip of the blade.

His rage giving him adrenaline fueled strength, the Butcher tried to turn the blade back toward Holmes, but his grip was firm and unrelenting.

A sudden 'CRACK' echoed loudly in the dark room, shortly after Watson heard the distinct 'TINK' sound of a steel object falling to the ground, it was the knife. In the struggle to turn his knife back toward Holmes, the Butcher had managed to break his own wrist. He fell to his knees as Holmes released his grip. The twisted man was now cradling his injured hand as small child would.

Holmes stepped back and turned toward his relieved colleague still standing in the doorway. "Now Watson, I do believe our work here is done."

"Holmes… Let's leave this dismal pit, shall we?" Watson was unsure of what he could say to Holmes. The brash detective willingly baited himself for a homicidal maniac, only to turn his back on the maniac a second time. How reckless could he be? Besides, the monster was now out of commission thanks to the broken wrist.

"Agreed." Holmes turned his gaze upward past Watson. "I hear Lestrade and his men making their way to our location as we speak." The distinct sound of carriages arriving at full speed, long with the stamping of heavy work boots indicated the arrival of the London Police Force.

"Right." Watson turned to exit the doorway first, while Holmes would follow.

The Butcher still in pain on the ground however was a sore loser. In one last moment of desperation and anger, the Butcher picked up his fallen knife with his opposite hand and lunged at Holmes with the fury of Hell itself. Holmes turned in time to lift his right arm upward to protect his heart from the blade, it struck deeply in the detectives flesh. Despite the pain Holmes made no sound, he simply grabbed the hand of the Butcher and twisted it into a direction that pushed the limits of a humans normal physical range.

The pain forced the angry man to submit to Holmes grip just as Lestrade entered the room. "Holmes? You down here?"

"Obviously." The detective pulled the knife free of his arm as Lestrade and his men arrested the Butcher. "Here you are. His weapon of choice." In the darkness Holmes could see that the knife was now missing the tip of its blade as he held out for Lestrade to take.

"Are you alright?" Lestrade worked with Holmes long enough that Holmes would never admit to being in pain or sustaining any type of injury but out of sheer respect for the man he asked after every case.

"Just fine." Holmes adjusted his sleeve to remove all evidence of there ever being a struggle to begin with, a small red stain began to blossom on the white fabric of his shirt but was undetectable against the darker color of his heavy coat.

As Lestrade forcefully led the infamous "Back-Alley Butcher" out of the warehouse, the madman looked back over his shoulder to Holmes who was now standing next to Watson in the rain. Both men were pulling their coat collars up further to cover their ears, protecting them from the stinging cold.

"I say again detective!" The heavy rain made it difficult to hear but Holmes was also a master of reading lips, in even at a great distance or in poor lighting. "You will _never_ see me behind bars!"

The arresting constable forced the Butcher into the back of their patrol carriage, locked the door and signaled for the carriage to take the villain back to the station to await trial and with no doubt, his execution.

Holmes watched the carriage disappear down the street, the sound of the horses hooves becoming duller with each passing second. Watson noticed Holmes seemed to be distracted by the Butcher's 'promise'.

"Holmes? You're not taking what he said to heart, are you?"

"Of course not, Watson. He's in custody and the case is solved. There is no reason for my precious time to wasted with the likes of him any longer."

The Butcher now safely in custody, Holmes and Watson returned to their flat of 221b Baker Street in the cold autumn rain, a slight breeze began to pick up strength blowing hard down the empty streets.

"You're sure you're unharmed?" Watson knew all too well that Holmes would likely deny any sign of weakness or wound. "That was a rather nasty moment-"

"My dear Watson, you worry far too much." Holmes frequently cut Watson off mid-sentence. "If there is any problem with my health, I assure you that this ghastly rain would be the most likely culprit." Holmes started to rub his hands together to ward off the cold, but to his surprise his hands seemed to be rather numb already. He simply passed it off as a consequence for not wearing his gloves that night.

"_Peculia_r" Holmes kept his observation to himself. As the two men walked Holmes began to rub away the cold further up his arms, beneath the sleeves of his coat and shirt when he felt a very warm pain beginning to radiate from his stab wound. "_The tip of the blade must've broken off into the wound. It's most likely lodged into the bone…"_

Watson's instincts as a doctor gave him a sense of dread as he watched Holmes continuously rubbing his hands and arms. "Are you absolutely sure you're feeling alright?"

"Perfectly fine." Holmes' voice was calm as it had been all day. A small feeling of discomfort remained after he finished his sentence. "_Blasted cold weather_…"

In unison, the duo walked up the front steps to the front door of their flat and entered into the warm atmosphere of their home. Mrs. Hudson was on holiday, visiting her sister several days away. With her absent Watson had taken on the responsibilities of keeping the flat tidy and properly heated.

"Well then Holmes," Watson took off his soaked coat and leather gloves at the doorway. "I believe I will add tonight's case to your rather impressive collection of successful deductions, then I'm off to bed. Good night Holmes."

Holmes had taken care to slowly remove his coat to keep his wound hidden until Watson was upstairs and out of sight. "Same to you Watson."

Rounding the corner at the stop of the stairs, Watson and his room and closed the door. Holmes made his way into the kitchen to gather some clean water, some to drink and some to boil in the kettle to act as a disinfectant for his secret wound.

The pain in his arm was becoming intense and hard to ignore. He rolled up the blood stained sleeve of his shirt to expose the wound to more proper lighting. The wound was quite deep, deeper than he expected to see. Carefully he used his fingers to gently open up the wound and peered inside, trying to spy the blade. In the dim light a small glint shone off the blade's smooth edge but it was covered in blood and would be difficult to remove, also just as he had suspected, the offending object was jabbed into the bone of his arm. It'd take a relative amount of strength to pull it out the object before infection set in.

Holmes continued to rub his hands together, feeling less sensation with each passing minute. The numbness was intensifying. As the seconds ticked by sweat began to bead on his brow, Holmes wiped his forehead with his other sleeve then took a gulp of the cool water he had poured into a glass after steeling the kettle to boil. Strangely enough the water seemed to irritate his throat, he coughed a little into his numbed hands. Soon after Holmes developed an odd metallic like after taste in the back of his throat. He swallowed hard trying to get the unwelcome sensation to leave but it still lingered.

Losing patience Holmes checked the water he had set to boil and found it was far from hot. Then again, with his hands numb it was difficult for him to properly gauge the waters actual temperature. Unable to wait any longer Holmes took the warm water, poured it into a clean wash basin, grabbed a clean white cloth and went into his study. He knew had to act quickly before the numbness caused him to lose all control of his hands.

Quietly he shut the door behind him, using his foot to ease the heavy door into its frame. Using the small lantern on his desk to light the room, Holmes placed the wash bin and cloth on top of the countless notes sprawled across the surface of the desk.

In a large, worn, wooden box at the top of the bookshelf nearest the desk, Holmes pulled out several small tools he often used for examination of clues when on a case: tweezers, pins, beakers and of course a magnifying glass. Holmes returned to his desk with his instruments in a numbing hand, his other attempted to stifle another cough. Testing the limits of his physical dexterity, Holmes stretched out his hands and fingers then closed them into tight a fist. He did this for several minutes but the lack of sensation in his hands remained the same. He had no choice but to work with little, to no feeling in his hands to guide him through the procedure.

Dipping the clean cloth into the warm water, Holmes cleaned the site of his wound. The water was much warmer than he was expecting, it stung at his exposed injury causing searing pain. But as before, he did not make a sound. The sweat returned to his brow, he again wiped it away but it immediately returned. He was hot and felt like he was getting hotter. He leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath, he rubbed his hands over his face and took a moment to reconsider asking Watson for assistance. But yet again his stubbornness won over his common sense; he tried to again to remedy his injury without assistance.

Holmes leaned forward resting his right arm on the desk, the wound facing upward. The wound itself was starting to swell up and cause the pain to intensify. Strategically Holmes had propped the magnifying glass' handle between two books, he titled the lens until the wound was clearly visible and thus making the procedure much easier. With a shaking, weak hand Holmes picked up the tweezers and attempted to cleanse his injury of the knife's tip. As soon as the pointed steel touched his raw skin he was compelled to retract his hand from the excruciating pain. He took another deep breath, coughed a little more and then tried once more. The pain returned, causing him to bite his lip to hold back the cry of agony that so desperately wanted to escape his lips. Every time the tweezers touched his skin he was immediately repelled by the pain.

Unwilling to quit Holmes reached over and placed his pipe in his mouth. Hoping that if he used the pipe to bite down on, it'd assist him enduring the pain long enough to finish what he started. As he tried once more to tend to his injury the pain returned with overwhelming power. He bit down hard on the pipe as he tried to force himself to tend to his injury, but it was not enough.

Frustrated, Holmes dropped the tweezers on the desk, leaned back in his chair and let the pipe simply fall out his mouth and onto the floor. With one numb hand he grasped at exposed wound, the pain and heat began to radiate in all directions. It had originated from the wound and beginning to travel the length of his arm that had no yet been affected the numbness. This was followed by a mild coughing fit which only exasperated his stress. He took a deep breath but found it difficult to hold it for too long.

Submitting to the fact that would not be able to care for his wound by himself, Holmes decided he needed to call for Watson. "watson…" His voice was weak, too hoarse to yell out. He swallowed hard and tried again. "WAT-" The pain cut him off, he coughed a little while rubbing his aching throat. One more time: "wa- wat-" It was no use, his voice was simply to weak. Another coughing fit followed his failed pleas, this one was longer and more aggressive than the last.

Holmes slammed his numb hands down hard on his desk sending several papers scattering into the air, away across the floor. The basin of water rippled and spilled a small amount of its contents on what papers remained in place. Tired and feeling his body grow hotter and weaker, took in several of the deepest breaths could possibly take and let them out slowly. After each breath he could feel his heart pounding harder in his chest.

Holmes tried to stand he found that his legs were also going numb. It took him several seconds to find a way to stand balanced, his own weight was becoming too much for his weakening legs to bear. Holmes looked down at legs in confusion, as if the answer to his malady was somehow displayed on his body. He slowly took a step toward his closed door, but soon stumbled forward. Though his hands were weak, he was still able to catch himself on the mantle of the fireplace, and remain upright. Using all the strength he could muster Holmes stood up straight once more and focused on the door. He took another step forward and fell heavily to the ground onto his hands and knees.

In a slight daze, he looked down at the carpet so uncommonly close to his own face, seeing all the loose fibers and lumps of dust. A single bead of sweat ran down his forehead dripping off the tip of his nose. The first drop was followed shortly by a second and a then a third bead of sweat, following a similar path to the carpet beneath his hands. His numb hands. Holmes was amazed that he was able to support his own weight at all, his hands and now his legs were numb. He clenched his hands into a fist and watch a his nails pulled up the loose fibers, but he could not feel the coarse fibers weaving their way between his fingers.

"Heavy perspiration, a fever, numbness of the extremities radiating further up into the limbs, an unknown metallic taste in my mouth, sore throat and difficulty breathing, irregular heartbeat…"

Left with little strength and limited options, Holmes did the only thing he could think of: Thinking itself. It was at times like this that Holmes wished he had no gift for deduction:

"_I have too many symptoms to pin point a single diagnosis..." _He coughed unexpectedly interrupting his train of thought. He continued to mentally analyze his condition through his latest bout of coughing. "_I'm not familiar with any bacteria or strain of virus that can cause such a menagerie of symptoms such as these. The only logical conclusion that remains is… Poison…"_

In a flash Holmes found himself reliving the events of the night through his vivid memories of the case and all events that took place after. Through the his own mind he could finally see the answers, unfortunately the answer would be of little help to the ailing detective after suffering extensive time without proper medical treatment: _"The strange discoloration of the tip of the blade… The Butcher had laced his knives with poison to ensure maximum damage on anyone who-"_

With a heavy 'THUMP' Holmes collapsed into an unconscious heap on the floor of his study, just a few feet away from his closed door. He laid on his chest, his wounded arm stretch out before him. The great sleuth, Detective Sherlock Holmes lay alone, dying on the floor of his own study. The answers to many questions that would have otherwise remained unasked were strewn about, encircling his body like the dropped leaves of the autumn foliage outside his window.

While finishing up his latest case memoir, Watson heard a loud sound come from Holmes' own study. He listened carefully, then heard nothing else. He just figured Holmes was being Holmes and doing one of his bizarre habits. Unbeknownst to the uncurious doctor, the sound he had heard was Holmes slamming down his fists in anger just a few feet away.

Uninterested or concerned by the sound he had just heard, Watson stood away from his typewriter and began to unfasten the tie around his neck, in order to dress for bed. A second loud noise made its way to his ears. He had learned from the great Detective himself that 'once is an incident and twice is a pattern'. He knew this was something he could not simply brush off, especially since as a doctor, he knew all too well the unfortunate sound a human body falling limply onto the unforgiving ground. Obeying his 'better instincts', Watson walked to his door and opened it partially and called out to his friend down the hall.

"Holmes?" No answer. He called a little louder. "Holmes? What was that sound?" Silence.

Watson exited his study and placed his hand on the handle of the door to Holmes' study and knocked. "Holmes?" Still no answer, no sound at all.

The doctor slowly turned the handle, pushed the door ajar and peered inside the dimly lit study. On the floor before him laid the crumpled, pale body of his friend.

"Holmes!" Watson dashed through the door and knelt beside Holmes' unconscious body.

"Holmes? Holmes?" Watson gently shook the detective's shoulders. No sign of response. "Wake up Holmes!"

Cautiously Watson managed to turn the unconscious detective onto his back. Holmes' shirt was drenched in sweat, it clung to his pale body. The blood stain on his sleeve was still slightly damp, indicating to Watson that the wound was fresh. The good doctor examined the injury, as his hands pressed into the wound, Holmes let out a moan of pain. It didn't take long before Watson felt there was foreign matter imbedded in the wound.

"Damn it Holmes…" The only thing holding back his anger was his fear, for Holmes' life.

With two fingers he checked Holmes' pulse. Fast, irregular and weak. His breathing had also become erratic and labored. Watson unbuttoned the detectives shirt and placed his ear to the unconscious man's slowly rising and falling chest. There was no mistaking the sound of severe pulmonary congestion, whether he was a doctor or not. Just by looking at Holmes he knew the man was suffering from a great fever, he placed his hand on Holmes' forehead. Holmes was indeed burning up with an intense fever. The most common symptom of a possibly lethal infection.

"Holmes? Holmes, can you hear me?" Again Watson tried to get a response from his friend and still there was nothing. The placed face of Holmes showed no sign of recognition or awareness.

Watson quickly glance around the study and spied Holmes' homemade 'medical kit' still sitting idle on the desk. Moving quickly Watson examined the items Holmes had brought together, grabbing the bloodied tweezers, magnifying glass and soaked the cloth in the warm water. He returned to Holmes' side with the gathered supplies and began the long overdue procedure to remove the tip of the knife from Holmes' arm. With the skill and precision known only by a top-notch surgeon, Watson managed to get the tweezers into the swelling wound without causing further damage to the surrounding tissue. Holmes winced in pain but never awoke from his delirium. After placing the object on the lens of the magnifying glass, Watson used the warmed cloth to keep the wound wide enough to see the object clearly with the magnifying glass, before finally gripping it with the tweezers and removing the toxic debris.

Just as quickly as it began the procedure was over. Watson then used the cloth to thoroughly cleanse the open wound before tearing it into strips to act as a temporary bandage. He checked Holmes' vital signs again, he was still struggling to breath and seemed to be growing weaker by the minute. With the wound mended, 'the surgery completed if you will', Dr. Watson managed to hoist his reluctant patient up and over his shoulders. He stood slowly, careful to keep Holmes from slipping away. Watson carried Holmes limp body out of the study and into Holmes' master bedroom to continue the examination and begin overall recovery.

Watson gingerly lowered Holmes onto the bed, finished removing the sweaty, bloodied shirt and then laid him down completely, gently placing his head onto the soft pillow. With the wound clean and infection treated, surely the fever would reduce itself naturally. All Watson had to do was tend to ill friend with cold compresses until Holmes' own immune system took over, ending his illness.

Dr. Watson left the room only to retrieve fresh cold water and his medical bag from his own study. During his brief absence Holmes began to have vivid dreams induced by the raging fever: Horrid memories of past cases. Each mutilated body he had ever seen was standing around his bed, the eyes of the most heinous criminals he had ever locked away had their eyes staring daggers at him from the darkness, every dark shadow he followed now loomed over him, the screams of all those who were killed by these madmen and the screams of those of whom Holmes had failed to protect, echoed loudly in his own mind…

How desperate and helpless Holmes felt. He tried over and over again to call out for Watson but even in his dreams, his own mind, his voice was gone.

Upon his return Watson saw Holmes weakly begin to thrash about in his sleep, the dreams seemed too real to ignore, to vivid to simply will away not matter how stubborn or strong his own mind was. The horrible sight haunted his thoughts, oblivious of the hallucination that overtaking his mind.

Watson placed his hands on Holmes' shoulders and held him steady: "Holmes? It's alright now. You're safe. I'm here and I'm going to take care of you."

Through the delirium Holmes heard Watson's voice. He so desperately wanted to call out but he still could not make a sound. But he had understood Watson's promise, the sense of loyalty from his dear friend induced the urge to call out again. With a weak voice, Holmes was barely able to utter a response: "wat- watson…"

Relieved to finally get any response from Holmes reassured Watson that the detective might just be strong enough to survive night after all.

"That's right Holmes. It's me." Watson gently brushed the sweaty strands of hair out of Holmes' face before placing a cold compress on his forehead. As soon as the cool sensation of the compress touched Holmes' burning skin, he calmed before taking a deep, but weak breath. He soon started drifting further into a deep slumber.

"wat…son" Watson leaned in closer to Holmes, straining to hear the hoarse words.

"Yes Holmes, I'm here. What do you need?"

"wat-" There was a pause before Holmes whispered a new word. "po- poy-" Before he could finish his sentence, Holmes fell unconscious again, deep into a dark slumber of both terror and hallucinations.

Watson was unable to understand what Holmes was trying to tell him, he couldn't even make out what little Holmes managed to speak.

"Rest well my friend." Watson checked Holmes pulse. "I'm not going to leave you alone, not in this condition."

Holmes started to shiver even though he was under a heavy quilt. His head would bob from side-to-side as he dreamt. Watson took the second quilt tucked at the foot of the bed and laid over the detective. Within a few minutes, Holmes' distress lessened.

Watson pulled the armchair that was in the corner of the room closer to Holmes bed. "A promise is a promise, even if it's with a foolishly, stubborn man-child."

The rest of the cold, rainy night was spent with Watson struggling to stay alert while Holmes endured the nightmares in his own memories. Every hour, on the hour, Watson would check Holmes vitals and replace the cold compress with a fresh one. During the long, seemingly endless hours that passed, there was no change in Holmes' condition, for better or worse. Watson began to suspect there was something else afoot and not just an infection. His suspicions grew as he checked and re-bandaged Holmes' arm, there was very little damage now that the knife had been removed, his skin was still swollen and red but it looked more like irritation and not an infection.

Keeping his word to not leave his ill friend alone, Watson had a message sent to Detective Lestrade asking for Lestrade to stop by the flat to discuss important details of the case surrounding "The Back-Alley Butcher", he made sure to include the importance of brining the case notes and records with him.

Within an hour Watson heard a knock at the front door. He called down the stairs inviting the detective inside. From below, Watson then heard Lestrade enter the flat, a case full of the official police records under his arm. "Detective, if you'd please join me upstairs it'd be greatly appreciated."

Lestrade was unaware of Holmes' condition. It was an odd request, asking to see the files of an already solved case. Especially when the request had come from Dr. John Watson and not Detective Sherlock Holmes. Lestrade walked up the stairs and looked down the hallway, he saw Watson sitting with his back to the door, still in the armchair. As he approached the doctor, he could see Watson had his focus on something, or rather, some one else. He stopped dead in tracks and stared silently at the horribly pale detective unconscious in the bed, he was still standing in the doorframe.

"He's been running a high fever since last night." Watson placed his hand on Holmes' forehead only to quickly put the compress back in its place.

He didn't have to look, he sense Lestrade hadn't entered the room just yet. "It came on very suddenly, I found him unconscious on the floor less than an hour after we last parted."

Lestrade couldn't take his eyes off the shell of the man that was once London's finest detective. "And you wish to know if any of my men have taken ill as well?" He crossed his arms, a natural defensive posture though it'd do no good against an infection.

"No, actually." Watson saw Holmes begin to shiver again, his body was now being ravaged by the chills, another symptom of his unknown condition. He walked across the room to the storage closet and pulled out a third spare quilt.

As Watson placed the additional quilt over the sick man, he continued his explanation to the patiently waiting Lestrade: "As a doctor, I can tell you for certain that this, whatever this condition is that has affected him, is of no known illness."

Hearing words like 'illness' and 'unknown' did not sit well with Lestrade under any circumstances, friend or not. "Then are you saying that this is a _new_ illness? And that every constable who was on patrol last night need be _quarantined_?" A small glimmer of panic entered his voice toward the end of the question.

"Heaven's no! Nothing like that all." Watson looked up a little surprise at Lestrade's assumption.

Lestrade let out a silent, yet noticeable sigh of relief. "Then what _are_ you saying, Dr. Watson?"

"Last night when I began to tend to Holmes, he tried to tell me something but he was too weak and his voice too far gone to finish." He looked down at Holmes and saw his body still shivering from the chills.

"I believe he was trying to inform me about his condition, something that he had deduced moments before passing out. I want to look at the previous case files, more specifically, the autopsy reports on all of the Butcher's victims."

"My God man, that is terribly morbid and not to mention, an incredible breach of privacy!" Lestrade had a look of shock and disgust at Watson's request.

Without changing his tone, Watson began to explain his reasoning: "I know it's a bit… 'extreme' to make such a bold request, but a man's _life_ is at stake here! A man who has helped put away some of London's most notorious criminals and subsequently saved… who _knows_ how many innocent lives as a result."

Lestrade stood silent, he understood how invaluable Sherlock Holmes has been to the police force, without him the city would be far more chaotic for sure. If he were to die then the streets would quickly overflow with violence and larceny.

"Doctor… I will allow you to view these records only under the strictest of confidence. If _anyone_ reports these files missing I will not hesitate to point them in _your_ direction. I will not lose my position based on a hunch. Even a doctor's hunch. Understood?"

"Perfectly."

Lestrade reluctantly handed the records to the open hands of Dr. John Watson. "I'll be back for this by six o'clock in the evening. Good day, doctor." He turned quickly out of the room.

"Good day, detective."

Watson sat in the arm chair next to Holmes. From downstairs he heard the front door open and then shut again signaling Lestrade's departure. "Now Holmes, let's see if _I_ can see what _you_ saw last night…"

As the day wore on Watson went over every word, every letter, every mark on ever piece of paper that came with the records but he couldn't find anything that stood out as unique or unusual. Each file was neatly opened with all documents arranged logically on the floor. There was nothing special about the arrest records, forensic files, evidence or even the autopsy records. Every victim had been fatally wounded in a strategic part of the body.

"Six women stabbed through the heart… Two men had their jugular's severed… Two men had been stabbed at the base of the skull, near the brain stem and one unfortunate woman met her fate with her eyes being stabbed out before he too, severed her jugular…" Watson closed the files when he felt a wave of nausea creeping up on him.

Each photo showed the gruesome details of their assaults. But the hollowed out eyes of the final woman had been ingrained into his memory. Her death was so violent, her eyes were red and swelling which means she was still alive during her attack. In a way, Watson was glad that she didn't survive, she surely would've been driven mad by the attack.

"That twisted bastard. He was well educated with human anatomy and he used this knowledge to bring suffering death. Thank God you tracked him down, Holmes. I'm just sorry he attacked you before he was in chains, locked away like the rabid dog that he is."

Holmes condition managed to grow worse by noon, his breathing was very labored and heavy. Every breath he took was slow, his chest barely rising before quickly falling with audible congestion in his lungs. Watson continually checked his pulse, then placed his hand over Holmes' chest to feel his heartbeat. Despite being physically weakened, his heart was beating very fast and hard. Watson's worry rose with good reason, a prolonged, irregular heartbeat can cause massive, irreparable damage.

The afternoon sun seemed sink very quickly to the horizon as Watson struggled to unravel a mystery, when he had no clues to find the solution and close the case.

Prompt as an officer of the law should be, Lestrade returned to collect the records. He knew before he had entered the room that Watson was unable to find the answer to his problems. "So sorry ol' chap."

Lestrade silently recollected the records and placed them back in the case. As he turned to leave the room he placed a reassuring hand on Watson's tired shoulder. "If anyone can save Holmes, it's you, Watson."

Watson said nothing as Lestrade left the room, the front door opening and shutting upon his departure. Once more, Watson was alone with a dying man in his care.

As night approached Watson found himself on the brink of desperation. All his knowledge and skills as a doctor and yet he couldn't save his dearest friend? How could he ever treat another patient again?

"wat-" From the pale lips of Holmes, a quiet whisper managed to escape.

Certain that he was imagining things, Watson didn't bother to put any thought into the sound. He was convinced that any notion of Holmes recovering would only be in his imagination.

"wat- wat…son…" This time he couldn't ignore it. Watson approached the bed and leaned in toward Holmes. "_'once an accident… twice a pattern'_…"

"Holmes?" Silence. "Holmes?" Still nothing. "Holmes! Sherlock Holmes!" Watson grabbed onto Holmes' pale, lifeless hand. "Listen to me you bastard, if you can hear me I need you to squeeze my hand? Do you hear? _Squeeze_ my hand!"

Watson was unaware that Holms had suffered numbness in his extremities before passing out. The condition must've spread much further by now. Holmes' hand remained motionless but his lips did not. "wats… son…"

Now Watson knew he wasn't crazy he heard Holmes' voice _and_ saw his lips move. He held Holmes' hand tighter. "Yes, Holmes? I'm right here, what do you need? Talk to me Holmes, it's vital that you tell me anything that you can!"

"p… poy… zen… p…" As Holmes struggled to speak, Watson silently imitated the words spoken as they were spoken.

Holmes repeated the same word again: "poy… zen… p-p… oy… zehn…"

"I don't understand." Watson placed Holmes limp hand back on the bed. "Poy… zen…? What is poy… POISON!" Watson practically shouted the answer.

"'Poison', is that what you're trying to say? You were _poisoned_?!" He grabbed Holmes shoulders to try to wake him up further, he was practically shaking Holmes trying to get the answer out, but again Holmes lay unconscious.

"Come on Holmes, wake up! I need to know if '_poison_' is what you were trying to tell me. Holmes? Holmes."

"But if that's true, how did you get poisoned in the first place?"

Watson quickly checked Holmes' arm and hand for any sign of an injection but found nothing. He checked the other arm, still nothing. Not wanting to leave anything to chance Watson checked Holmes legs, ankles, chest, neck… No sign of a needle anywhere. After hours of searching and waiting, Watson finally had a clue: Poison. But where, how, when and what? These important questions still needed to be answered.

"This is absolute bullocks. How can I help Holmes when I can't find any indication of foul play, let alone I have no idea what was going through his mind before falling ill." Watson began to pace about at the foot of the bed, his hand rubbing against his chin.

"I supposed the only way to understand what Holmes was thinking is to starting thinking_ like _Holmes himself." Working with the only lead he could conceive, he ran the idea over and over again in his mind as he paced restlessly about the room.

"Your injury…" Watson knelt beside the bed and exposed Holmes' wounded arm. He undressed the wound to inspect more closely: _"Swelling, skin irritation, inflamed blood vessels… Throw in the fever… But the lung congestion and chills…"_

"If a single poison was able to cause so many symptoms so quickly, then surely it would've killed him hours ago..." Watson resumed his pacing. He tried to think back to the night before, trying place the moment Holmes would've been injured. As he closed his eyes, the women with her eyes removed entered his mind. That horrid image seemed like it would forever haunt him. The surrounding tissue of her eyes was red and swollen. In fact, her non-fatal injuries seemed to mirror Holmes'. He fought to make the image cease and let the images of the night before resume.

"_In the warehouse, in the dark, the Butcher attacked with a knife. You stopped him. I left. Then_-"

The answer suddenly dawned on Watson with just as much warmth and brilliance as the rising sun itself. "You were attacked a second time after I left the room!" He pointed at the unconscious detective, certain that Holmes could still hear everything that was going on.

"You stubborn… Last night when you kept rubbing you arms, it wasn't from the cold was it?" The answer became obvious as all the pieces started to fall into place.

"The Butcher's victims were all ruled homicide with their apparent injuries rule as the cause of death. No one checked the blood for any trace of any substances being used. I just assumed that the… lady with her eyes… removed… That her skin around her eyes was swollen from the attack itself, but the swelling wasn't from the blade. The swelling was caused by what had coated the blade."

Watson stopped by pacing and stared at Holmes, his intense with drive. "It's a combination illness: the poison from the knife weakened your immune system. As we were walking home in the chilly rain, you caught a chest cold at the same time… The two infections fed off of each other, one allowing the other to run rampant in your body."

The diagnosis was finally underway. Watson quickly made his way back to Holmes' study to examine the foreign material that he had removed the night before. It was still on the magnifying glass with the tweezers clutching it, covered in Holmes' dried blood. Upon retrieving the object, Watson went over to one of the many large bookshelves in the study and took a large worn text book that informed of poisons, venoms and all other toxins. Upon retrieving the required objects, Watson returned to Holmes' room to begin his research.

After a process of elimination through pictorial analysis and chemical reactions from the elaborate selection of chemicals that the two men had acquired over the years. Watson was certain he found the very poison that was ravaging Holmes' body. He followed the passage closely, as well as the obscure notes that Holmes himself had written on the pages. Watson was able to produce a mixture of chemicals that was sure to neutralize the toxin.

Certain he had the formula correct, Watson mixed the compound into a small bowl, he leaned over Holmes once more and again took his vitals: Weak pulse with an erratic heartbeat, labored breathing, high fever… If he couldn't cure Holmes before the day was through, Holmes would surely die.

"Alright, come on." Watson carefully lifted Holmes head and pressed the bowl of medicine towards Holmes lips, hoping that he was conscious enough to drink. But Holmes did not respond.

"Sorry for this, but I must use a syringe." Watson set the bowl down on the small table with his medical supplies.

Watson sterilized the needle and vial from his medical bag before filling it with the life saving concoction. A quick swab of Holmes arm, then the needle was inserted. The good doctor waited at the foot of the bed, unsure if this antitoxin would have any negative side effects. Holmes just laid in bed, breathing heavily with his paled face drenched in his feverish sweat.

"I hope this was enough for you Holmes." Watson sat back in the armchair, mentally and emotionally exhausted. He'd take treating an entire hospital full of sick people over treating one Sherlock Holmes, any day! He leaned his elbows on his knees and rest his face in his hands. Fatigue was a doctor's worst enemy.

It rained heavy, cold drops all the rest of the night. It pounded loudly on the roof of the flat, the windows had all fogged over with condensation.

Watson devotedly tended to Holmes' fever while simultaneously examining his body for any sign of ill effect from the antitoxin. Watson was running on nothing but pure adrenaline by the time morning had come. To his surprise, the sun rose. It's light a welcomed omen of better things to come. The bright rays of the sun crept along the floor onto Holmes bed.

It had rained for two days straight causing the world outside to take on a gray, bleak outlook. Now the world outside seemed brighter, more joyous as the sounds of the waking city began to fill the air.

For Watson, staying awake for two days, with nothing eat, was nearing collapse. In order to give his best to Holmes he had planted himself back in the armchair and kept his hand planted on the side of Holmes wrist. It was an efficient way to monitor the radial pulse.

Sometime during the night Holmes had recovered enough strength to adjust his position as he slept, the nightmares had ended. He was peacefully resting on his right side, with his bandaged arm laying beside him. The sound of Holmes taking in a deep breath motioned that the ill detective was indeed on the mend. He was still pale and feverish, with dark circles forming under his eyes.

Watson put his free hand on Holmes chest feel his heart beating. The beat was still a little fast, but the rhythm was stable. This gesture was enough to rouse Holmes at last, from his slumber. As his eye lids began to open, the natural coloring of his eyes seemed much brighter than ever before.

Watson stood up and bent over to look at the face of his recovering comrade. He couldn't help but smile at the sight of his friend finally opening his eyes after two days of uncertainty. Watson's cure was indeed a success.

Holmes blinked his eyes a few times before glancing casually about his room. He sensed Watson was sitting in the room with him, he looked toward the edge of his bed to see Watson leaning over him.

"How do you feel Holmes?"

"much like hell…" Holmes' voice was still a little hoarse.

Watson smirked. "I'd have to agree with that analogy."

Holmes was instantly intrigued by Watson's statement. "oh? how is that?"

"Not to be too blunt but you _look_ like Hell!"

Holmes was unamused. He just stared through partially opened eyes at his grinning friend.

"You should smile Holmes, I just saved your life by deducing your illness with the clues you neglected to share."

This declaration instantly drew Holmes' attention back toward his colleague. "and what…" He coughed hard, Watson put his hand on Holmes chest to feel how well the congestion in his lungs was starting to diminish.

Holmes was able to finally catch his breath and clear his throat before trying again. "as I was saying… what did I neglect to tell you, my dear doctor?"

"For starters…" Holmes instantly recognized that tone, it was the tone Watson always used when he wanted to reprimand detective for his reckless behavior.

"You denied ever being injured, let alone having a piece of the weapon still lodged somewhere inside your body and you denied your own oncoming sickness."

Holmes interrupted Watson's well deserved lecture. "you are of course referring to the tip of the poisoned knife tip, are you not?"

"Indeed I am." Watson continued on, he held up the toxic object for Holmes to see.

"Yet despite your stubborn, asinine behavior I still managed to 'deduce' your illness, cure your poisoning and nurse you back to health." Watson sat back in the arm chair with a smug look across his face.

"If I do say so myself, that's some fine detective work and some _damn_ fine doctoring.."

"True, your medicines seemed to have cure my condition, but it begs the question." Watson tilted his head a little at his friends inquisition.

"exactly _how_ did you diagnosis the poison with which the Butcher had so egregiously attempted to slay me?"

Watson smiled and pointed to the opened book on the table next to the basin of medicine. "I decided that in order to save Holmes, I must _think_ like Holmes. I used one of your many and unusual books to gather my knowledge. For once Holmes, it seems your inability to toss anything, though the object in question is quite superfluous, has actually been worth it."

Holmes just stared at Watson with a blank look on his pale face. "well then… good work…"

Watson didn't quite know how to take that response. Was is a compliment? A sarcastic retort? Or was there another piece to the puzzle, information that Holmes was no going to divulge? But after being Holmes flat mate for so long, Watson was able to sense when he was being baited. He took a bite.

"'Good work'? Why Holmes, if I'm not mistaken that would be an acknowledgement of my view being correct and your view being wrong."

Holmes had the tiniest smirk on his face. "of course. it was an inevitability that you'd learn supreme deductive reason skills from the best."

Watson chuckled a little. "I suppose so."

"Now, as both your doctor _and _your rescuer…" Again, Holmes did not respond to Watson's humorous quip.

"I want you to stay in bed for the rest of the week. That should be sufficient time for you to fully recover from your poisoning and begin to recover from your cold." Watson crossed his arms as a means to show his seriousness of the order.

"A _week_? You must be daft!" Holmes voice was showing signs of improvement now.

"Criminals work the streets everyday, come rain or shine; sickness or health. I cannot lay about like some half-dead carcass…"

"I believe that you can, and I believe that you will." Watson checked Holmes' forehead with his hand to gauge the fever.

"You're fever has lessened but not fully broken. Doctors orders Holmes, now get some rest."

Though he dared not show it, Holmes was indeed very impressed by Watson's deductive skills and overall devotion as both a doctor and a friend.

"Very well, I will rest. But only for a moment."

"In all honesty Holmes, I never expected you'd ever give a moment to yourself or anybody else. Maybe you're much sicker than I thought."

"Not funny doctor! Not funny at all!" Holmes pulled the covers up over his head. "Do be sure to put that book back _exactly_ where you found it Watson!"

Getting in the last word, Holmes closed his eyes and promptly fell asleep.

-The End


End file.
